


Kink Meme Fills

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Romance, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: All the Witcher fills I have done on dreamwidth. they're mostly whump or sickfics, who am I kidding?1: Food poisoning2: Sick but dedicated3. Impending Breakdown
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 108
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	1. Geralt/Jaskier: Food poisoning

The problem starts when Jaskier turns to him one night as they’re setting up camp on the way to the next town and tells him the fish has rotted in their packs.

“Perhaps it was the sun,” the bard suggests with one tentatively raised eyebrow.

“Hmm.”

Today was abnormally hot for encroaching autumn, but Geralt suspects it has less to do with that and more with the poorly-concealed disgust of the fishwife at the market stall. Roach wickers gently behind him, nibbling at the grass. He considers his options as he makes a fire, ignoring Jaskier’s wide eyes waiting on him for an answer; he knows he’s thinking about which one of them will go hungry tonight and if Geralt will consider human limits when he makes them set off again tomorrow morning. He could join Roach and eat the grass, which wouldn’t be the first time and would certainly take the edge of the hunger off and would certainly have his companion looking at him like he’s some sort of animal. (The latter point, granted, was only a matter of time, but so far Jaskier has treated him like a human and that’s been... nice.) Hunting is perhaps the most sensible option, but this section of woods has claimed many lives with no explanation, witcher and human and animal lives and he can’t hunt without Jaskier and taking Jaskier on a hunt is a guarantee he won’t catch anything. The bard just can’t shut up to save his life. Which leaves...

“Give it to me,” grunts Geralt, reaching out his hand. “Take the berries and nuts my pack and have that. I’ll have this.”

“What?!” Jaskier doesn’t follow the plan (what else is new?) and yanks the fish away instead, aghast and disgusted all at once. “Gods, Geralt, _no_ , there’s no way I’m allowing you to eat this!”

He frowns.

“I don’t care if you’re a witcher, that doesn’t mean you can eat _anything_!”

“...Is that a challenge?”

“No!” his face is turning redder and redder and Geralt wonders what he has done wrong (this time.) Jaskier sputters some more, leaning back far enough to make sure the food is out of reach until he’s finally able to string a sentence together again. “Why don’t we just _share_ your food, Geralt?”

“There’s rations for one man and I shall not listen to your complaining in the morning.” All this talking is giving him a fucking headache. “Just give it to me, Jaskier. I’ve eaten worse before.”

A strange look falls over his face. “When?” Then, “Not- not so I could-?”

“No. _Before_.” Which isn’t a lie- he’s never eaten spoiled food so Jaskier didn't have to go hungry. He _has_ had less than his fill so Jaskier wouldn’t go hungry, but that’s not the question he asked.

He’s weakening, Geralt can tell. The day’s journey has been long and tomorrow’s will be longer and Geralt is offering him a solution where they both eat. A twig falls from a branch at the same moment he gives in, “You’re _sure_ you’ll be alright if you eat this?”

It’s the _care_ that leaves him lost and, in all honesty, a little helpless; the feeling is not dissimilar to when Vesemir led them as children to the forest near Kaer Morhen, blindfolded them and told them to find their way. It begets the same anticipating fear, the wariness of each step, worried your foot will plunge into an abyss and that’ll be the last thing you know. This is how care feels like.

All Geralt says is, “Hmmm.”

For some reason, Jaskier just won’t let it go, “But you swear you’ll be fine, right? You promise?”

“I promise.” Jaskier’s hand feels cool on his fingers as he takes the fish. “Witchers don’t get sick.”

***

 _You cannot fall asleep_. Some part of his mind reminds him. Geralt snorts, the sound turns into moan as another wave of pain washes over him. Fat chance of _that_. So, witchers can get sick.

An hour after Jaskier fell asleep, heat had begun to prickle up his spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Geralt has sharpened his swords until three hours after Jaskier fell asleep, the pain got so bad he was clenching his teeth hard enough to worry he might break a tooth. Now, four hours since his companion slipped into the land of dreams, he is curled on his own bedroll, forehead to the ground, knees to his chest, arms round his waist; this facsimile is probably the closest he’s ever gotten to praying and the irony is not lost on him.

He hisses and tucks his chin into his chest a little lower, swallowing down hard on the desire to throw up. Thankfully, his hair is still tied back from where Jaskier washed it the night before- the few strands that have escaped the leather tie are damp like he’s fallen into a river and smell even worse. Imagining how it’d feel to have his hair loose and wafting on his face and neck and shoulders- oh fuck and he retches but refuses to open his mouth, which just hurts even more.

It’s dark, the night all encompassing, the fire gone out and... No, it’s not dark. His eyes snap open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jaskier is there, fine, asleep on his own bedroll, scarcely five feet away. _Stay awake. Keep your eyes open_. Geralt shifts onto his side so his back is to his bard, ducking under the haze of fever clouding his eyes to survey the forest and the little clearing where they’ve made camp. If he falls asleep in this state, there is very little chance he will be able to detect approaching danger.

A corner of his blanket brushes up against his face and he seizes it in his teeth and bites down _hard_ , curling up into as tight a ball as possible and refusing to make a sound. Broadcasting his weakness to a den of monsters is bad idea and he will not endanger Jaskier.

Just- _oh fuck_. He bites down harder, feeling the fabric tear a little. How much longer until morning?

Geralt of Rivia refuses to close his eyes again and doesn’t, protecting the bard at his back with the blanket wedged into his mouth and breathing harshly through his nose to make his stomach stay at the bottom of his ribcage as he charts the night slowly erode into the dull grey that signals upcoming daen.

Light enough for human eyes to see by?

As good as.

“Jaskier,” he grunts, not daring to move. The syllables scrape out of his throat and across his tongue like a growl.

To his credit, he does not make him repeat himself, stirring and sitting up and blinking the sleep out of his eyes almost immediately, spine curved over in an elegant ‘c’, longing to be asleep again. “Mmmm- what- oh, shit, oh fuck!” the rest of his cursing is lost in the commotion as he scrambles to Geralt’s side and kneels by his head. “I told you- didn't I fucking tell you not the eat it?”

To his utmost horror a whine escapes his mouth. He curls a little tighter. Jaskier’s voice drops to a tone impossibly soft, a hand pressing against his forehead and stroking his hair back, “It’s alright. No fever, at least. You’ll probably be fine by tomorrow with your witcher constitution, but I bet you didn't sleep a wink, did you?”

Nausea roars up his ribcage and he barely manages to grunt in response without ending up with his last meal down his front. The fish... _fuck_ he buries his head into his bedroll and presses his knees into the burning cramps in his gut. It really fucking hurts and it’s really his own stupid fault and it’s _there_ , whenever he breathes in or swallows it’s there at the bottom of his throat, tasting worse and worse with every passing second. Everything hurts.

“Shush,” his bard murmurs, then his head is being lifted and there’s shifting, then, _then_ he’s lying on something soft and he realises his head is cushioned on Jaskier’s knees which is... Oh, who’s he fooling? This is _nice_.

“Aw, Geralt,” his voice is soothing. A perfectly clear expanse of blue sky; one of his hands stays on the back of his neck deliciously cool, but the other inches lower and tries to ease between the mess of limbs he’s got tangled round his stomach. He mumbles a warning, and then quickly cuts if short when it makes the green-grey feeling in his throat feel like its bubbling. _Ugh_.

“You haven’t thrown up, have you?” Is that... accusation?

He shakes his head the barest inch to the side, world beginning to spin slowly. Jaskier sighs, “You should really let yourself, love, your body wants rid- it’ll settle your stomach enough you might be able to sleep.”

Nothing is more tempting than the prospect of slipping into unconsciousness now and waking up only when this is all over, but Jaskier’s wrong: it won’t stop, it’ll just open the flood gates. And the smell would be- he gags and quickly shuts his mouth, teeth clacking together as he bites and swallows down on the foul thick taste of fish on his tongue, the rest of his body jack-knifing in Jaskier’s grip as it tries to rebel. Everything hurts and he’s convinced he’s going to split down the middle like a rotten tree struck by lightning. He’s fairly sure he hasn’t thrown up in close to five years, at least certainly the last time was before he acquired a bard and a ballad and his body feels like a foreign object, controlled by a thing not himself, aching and whining and keening pathetically as he squirms on his bedroll like a target for a predator.

If this were a monster he were facing her might say he was scared, only even if it was a beast witchers don’t feel scared. “Stop it,” he growls as hard as he dares. Jaskier keeps tugging at his arms and if he pulls any harder he’ll fly apart. Answer comes in the form of water, the rim of a mug at his lips held by a steady hand decidedly not his own.

Geralt snarls.

Jaskier merely hums and the mug remains. “Just a little sip, Geralt, for me? You’ll get dehydrated and feel worse.”

True to the bargain, he takes _one_ sip. Hardly enough water to wet the tip of his tongue, certainly not enough to rid the taste from his mouth. He feels shaky and empty and full, somehow, and the water is cold and sharp on his teeth like an arrow wound.

Over his head, Jaskier has started talking again and he lets the words flow over him as he squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the vertigo prickling up his body up until the point where, lulled into a state of false security, the bard seizes his chance and yanks him to lie on his back instead. Geralt hisses, every sense returning to him white-hot and sharp as a knife, his stomach cramping in time with his racing heart beat.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry. “But just _try_ , will you, please? It’ll help, I promise.” The pure honesty in his voice smells the same as when a high-pitched note strikes the air and he complies, feeling too sickly to do anything else. Good thing Jaskier treats him as if he is made of glass, because he feels twice as breakable, too pained to feel embarrassed even.

The lark makes him lie on his back but pull his knees up so his feet are flat on the ground. The last time Geralt was in this position, he thinks a kikimora had just gotten in a lucky hit, yet it helps, loosening the horrible ache in his guts. Or perhaps that’s all Jaskier, whose hand slides beneath his shirt and starts rubbing slow circles on his belly and Geralt thinks if he can just spend the next few hours like this, maybe he will survive and wake up tomorrow fine.

“There now, is that better?”

 _Yes, thank you Jaskier_. In lieu of the actual words, he hums instead and dutifully sips at the mug when it’s brought to his lips again. The hand on his stomach is making him dizzy and the feel of his hair heavy with sweat and stench is worse than just about any potion he’s ever taken, but it hurts less than it did.

The water has gone from cold to tepid and he tries not to think about it as he swallows. He lies back again, swallows again, then feels his stomach lurch and the water change direction, thick bile rising hot and painful in his chest. Absently, he’s aware of Jaskier scrambling away from his side and his hand digging into his stomach by accident as he does. Geralt grabs a nearby tree stump and drags himself as far away from their bedroll as he can before he throws up. It’s horrible to taste and worse to watch; he closes his eyes as the chunks of liquid catch in his mouth and make him cough and spit. Some of it ends up on his shirt and the wetness starts to seep through the old fabric, onto his skin, his hair wet and clammy on his neck and making him shiver with cold, the smell of sweat invades his nose and he retches and continues to gag long after the last of the fish has left his body. There’s a path burnt from his mouth to his throat to his stomach, on fire and the smell of fish makes Jaskier gag behind him too. The muscles in his stomach clench and refuse to relax, trapping a last bit of nausea there and refusing to relinquish it. _Fuck_ Geralt thinks, blinking away the tears the exertion had brought to his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something and his stomach curdles harder and he hunches over instead, hands layered protectively over his middle. Sitting up for so long is making his ears ring; at an undetermined point Jaskier’s crept up behind him and started to rub his back instead.

Seasick, Geralt lists to the side, heaving again as his right arm accidentally lands in the puddle of his own vomit. Inexplicably, he’s not empty and he vomits even more, until he’s convinced his chest is on fire and Jaskier has to take on the task of keeping him upright.

He expects horror, disgust, any sort of reminder that this is entirely his own fault and probably punishment for his hubris. He’s ruined his favourite shirt too. Did Jaskier at least escape being caught in the crossfire? He turns to ask and groans at the ache in his neck.

“Jaskier,” he slurs, the syllables all running together.

“It’s alright,” his voice is shaking, so clearly there is nothing that is alright. He hasn’t got the energy to pick him up on it. “I think you’re done for now, it’s okay. Come here.” Hands are under his arms and pull him to his feet. Geralt doesn’t try to stand upright, content t waver on his feet and sway in the breeze whilst Jaskier leads him back to his bedroll and carefully pulls his soiled shirt over his head.

That damned mug of water appears again. “Rinse your mouth out whilst you’re up.”

He does, spitting it as far away from their camp as he possibly can. Didn't they have a spitting contest once, back in Kaer Morhen? Jaskier cajoles him into having another mouthful, then helps him lie back down again. “Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll clean it up,” he promises, hands back on Geralt’s stomach again and rubbing steadily even as it twists beneath his palm. “Your shirt may be salvageable yet.”

He doesn’t even mumble in response, too afraid of the sickness bubbling away at the base of his throat and biding its time. Jaskier picks up the conversation anyway and Geralt lets his eyes close and tries to forget how shit he feels. Stupid fucking fish. Stupid fucking fishwife. Stupid fucking witcher.

“Hush,” soothes Jaskier. “Go to sleep.”

 _Impossible_ Geralt wants to say, but he’s half asleep already. 


	2. sick but dedicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt agreed to bodyguard Jaskier at another court event. He wakes up feeling extremely unwell and spends the whole morning vomiting, but he made a promise and Jaskier won't be safe without him, so he shows up that night as he said he would. Cue very sickly witcher trying to hide his condition from Jaskier and everyone else and keep from puking again, until he can't do either anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set very early on in the friendship

" _Please_?" wheedled the bard for the umpteenth time, his voice only getting higher as the sun sank towards the horizon.

Geralt ground his teeth and focused on brushing down Roach at the edge of their camp for tonight. "No."

Jaskier was persistent, he'd give him that. And annoying. He had said 'no' at least fifteen times today and cursed himself twice as many times for telling Jaskier the name of the town they would pass tomorrow.

"It’s on the way, Geralt, it’s not as if we’d have to make a detour! And it’s a free meal for us both- why, this is exactly the same as any other tavern we spend the night in, just... it'll be a mansion." Roach snorted just loud enough for a Witcher's hearing and Geralt hummed in agreement. "Are you two ... judging me?" Jaskier's voice rose another note with incredulousness. "Honestly I, a humble bard, am merely trying to secure us both a meal and contribute to my friend's reputation and here that said friend is- with his horse!- judging me!"

Geralt sighed as he heard the tell-tale crunch of leaves that meant he had thrown himself dramatically into his bed roll, "Fine."

"What?!"

"I said 'fine'."

"Really?" In a flash, he was upright and striding to stand on the other side of Roach, his eyes bright and the air tasting heavy with his excitement. "You mean it?"

"...Yes," he said reluctantly. "I'll body guard you at Lady Karen's feast."

"Geralt!" The joy tasted strange in his mouth, but it suited Jaskier's face perfectly. "I swear, Geralt, you won't have to do anything except stand there and look menacing- you might even enjoy yourself!"

He and Roach snorted at the same time. Jaskier only smiled wider.

***

There was, Geralt was convinced, a special sort of hell that involved finery and court events, one to which he had condemned himself with nothing to blame but his own stupidity. Jaskier had, somehow, found him new clothes to wear for the feast tomorrow night and was forcing him to try them on.

Geralt watched as his mouth turned down in distaste in the mirror, “People enjoy wearing this?”

"Yep!"

"Why?"

He appeared to genuinely consider the question, "Because they're there to be political and look their best. Wearing things like this makes them feel good whilst they do. People like to look good."

"Hmmm." The collar was tight round his neck and the fabric pulled under his arms; the trousers were loose all over and highly impractical if he needed to kick something- the drape of the excess fabric didn't even let him conceal a knife at his ankle or in the top of his boot and he said as much to the bard.

"It’s called fashion, Geralt, honestly."

"Witchers don’t have fashion."

Jaskier snorted, eyeing his abandoned clothes at the end of the bed, "Clearly. Now-" he produced from seemingly nowhere a jacket to complete the ensemble, all frills and silk. Geralt did his best to hold back a snarl- Jaskier had at least gone to the effort of getting it in as dark a grey as possible, but the thing was still as hideous as it was impractical and loose-fitting.

"See?" he prompted, picking lint off the cuffs and turning him back round to face the looking glass again. "You look good!"

"If you say so." He was disappointed to find he looked himself, just in ridiculous clothes; his long white hair tangling with the various ruffles and trims. "Can I wear my boots?"

A dramatic sigh, "I suppose so. It's not as if you've any other shoes, and this town has no cobbler."

Good. He had no desire to gain multiple blisters for one night of mediocre indulgence. The outfit was bad enough as it was. Not that he couldn't kill a monster wearing it, but that wasn't the point.

"What're you wearing?"

Jaskier's face split into a huge grin, delighted and excited all at once. "You shall just have to wait and see, my friend, though rest assured my own outfit will be spectacular." 

"If you say so." The concept of fashion was a mystery and he had no desire to learn about any of it or take part in it. Let the humans have their silks and dresses if they wanted. Unless he was forced into it like he was now doing, he had no wish to see any of that world.

 _He didn’t force you, you offered_. Well, shit.

Jaskier was still talking, he realised, trying to catch the rest of the conversation that had gone on without him. "...Karen always insists on a traditional gathering for drinks the night before. I wouldn't, normally, being as they’re the most boring thing on the Continent, but it could be a way to ask if I can perform tomorrow night."

The words rushed through his ears in a torrent and rendered him dizzy. "What?" he settled on eventually. It seemed a safe enough thing to say.

"Do you want to come with me?" Jaskier repeated, pulling his things into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "Or shall I pick you up tomorrow, give you some peace until the feast starts?"

"I..." no one had ever, to his recollection, asked what he wanted before.”Don't you need guarding tonight, too?"

He edged out of the way to allow him to fix his hair in the mirror. "No, the only people who really go tonight are the women. It should be fine."

Geralt snorted, "You get into trouble with lots of women."

A huge grin lit up the room, "Why Geralt that almost sounded like teasing. I'm impressed. But I'm late enough as it is- tell me, do you want to come tonight or not?"

Geralt still had no idea how to answer that question, though a whole twenty four hours of peace to prepare for an evening of hell was tempting indeed. He had no idea what a traditional night of drinks consisted of and at this point he as afraid to ask. "No."

"Alright- be ready tomorrow, I'll come just before sundown."

"Hmmm." he non-responded as Jaskier weaved his way to the door of the room they had booked for the next two nights at the town's smallest inn. The minute the door slammed behind him, he threw himself onto the bed, still fully dressed in fine silks and his dirty boots. "Fuck."

***

Geralt came back to the land of the awake with a groan, quickly followed by a retch. Swearing, the words turning to foul-tasting bubbles in his mouth, he rolled to the side of the bed and vomited into the chamber pot. Without even time to think fuck, he drew in a breath and began to retch again.

It was a long time before it was over, and then the nausea receding seemingly only to allow him to feel the aches and pains in the rest of his body. Now he could finally say "Fuck." Now it made sense why he'd felt so tired the night before. Now what was he going to do? The only thing he felt like doing was sleeping with interruptions only for puking; Jaskier’s stupid feast was tonight. _I could cancel_ , he pondered, pulling the blanket over his head and turning away from the morning light peeking through the window. No he couldn’t. Jaskier had made it very clear he wouldn’t be safe without him there. And... He had promised to go

He had promised Jaskier he would accompany him tonight after Jaskier had called them friends. Well, shit. He was going then.

***

The ripening of the day did nothing to improve its outlook. By the time Jaskier knocked again at the door, Geralt had lost count of the times he had thrown up or had to steady himself against unforgiving waves of dizziness. Even sitting down everything was slightly off, still objects crawling an inch to the side and jumping back again whenever he tried to focus.

Jaskier's entrance sent ripples of pain through is head and he could barely grunt in acknowledgement, though he couldn’t hold back a groan when the bard was followed by a pair of strong-armed maids, faces pulled into scowls by the weight of the water pails in their hands.

"Geralt!" his crowing physically hurt. He tuned it out whilst he directed (and flirted) with the maids, though once they were gone had no choice but to listen and grit his teeth whilst his clothes were plucked away piece by piece.

Once in the bath, the heat of the water made him reconsider. This was a good idea- it was soothing, so much so he even closed his eyes whilst Jaskier washed his hair, though keeping is grunts down to the bare minimum in an attempt to keep hold of what little remained of last night's supper.

The hands on his scalp paused, "Are you alright?"

"Fine." It sounded more like 'hmmm'.

"I'm..." A pause. Clinks of bottles of oil. He swallowed hard at the heavy smells. "I'm not here to- just to make sure you're all 'acceptable' for high company, if that's what you're thinking."

Geralt opened his eyes, staring at the dark ceiling and the reflection of candlelight off Jaskier’s hair. "I wasn't thinking that." Although he was ow and it was nice, to know that that's not why he was here, even if that would be a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Witchers don't fit into fancy company, or any company at all. Most days, Jaskier had to badger him to wash monster guts out of his air.

"You weren’t? Wat's wrong, then?"

"Nothing."

"But... you're quiet- quiet for you, I mean. And you keep swallowing, the way you always do when I've said something stupid."

Surprisingly, his first thought isn't anything along the lines of 'You always say something stupid' or 'Fuck off, bard'. He closes his eyes again, waiting for Jaskier to rinse the soap from his hair, then says without meaning to, "Throat's sore." Which it is, prolonged vomiting will do that to you.

"Really?" he's surprised at the admission. "Are you sure you really want to-"

"Yes." A promise is a promise, after all. And Jaskier won't be safe by himself. A promise is a promise.

"Okay." Then, "I thought witchers didn't get sick."

"We don't." He heaves himself out of the water and almost trembles with the cold, clamping his mouth shut before his teeth can chatter and betray him. "Side effect of potions." Not that he used a potion against yesterday's Bruxa, but...

...Did he use a potion against yesterday's Bruxa? Was yesterday's Bruxa yesterday?

This was not good. _A promise is a promise_. Geralt yanked his breeches and boots on and let Jaskier concern himself with the rest and let his complaints of 'not sharing any details with me' wash over his head.

***

Roach, when he went to check on her ( _No, I am not saying 'goodbye' to my horse_ , he growled at Jaskier's sceptical accusations) before leaving, immediately detected that something was the matter and whickered nervously, nosing at his head and chewing the ends of his hair.

"Don't slobber on these clothes," Geralt warned her sternly. She huffed and neighed a little, her eyes big in her head with fear. Geralt buried his face in her mane and let his shoulders sag. "I'm alright. I'm alright."

Huffing, she stomped her left hoof and turned her head abruptly away, locks of chestnut hair hitting is face. That meant 'You're a liar' in horse speak and 'I'm so done with you'. Smiling, Geralt left the stables and caught up with Jaskier, idling at the blacksmith’s, ignoring his pithy "I don't know who has the separation anxiety- Roach or you."

Everything ached and he wasn't even hungover. The sun was dipping below the horizon quickly and Geralt only hope the rest of the night went by just as fast.

***

On arrival Geralt could fee his every muscle trembling and felt no compunctions about giving his hardest, meanest glare at the doorman who didn’t seem overly-inclined to consider a witcher a party guest. They passed by without another word.

Well, he was no party guest, certainly, only Jaskier's protection for an evening.

"Are you sure you’re alright?" Jaskier hissed as they passed under an archway and out into a courtyard flocked y fine guests standing in carefully arranged spirals.

He grunted in return, "Thought there’d be more music."

As he'd hoped would happen, Jaskier seized the opportunity to expand a witcher's knowledge of court intricacies, yammering excitedly between bites of hot spiced-apple pastries. He proffered one Geralt’s way and he turned it down, trying to ignore the churning hot feeling in his gut in favour of glaring at any nobleman who glanced their way. Gods damn Jaskier- if he'd only learn to keep it in his breeches or at least check who he was cuckolding before falling into bed, none of this would be happening and Geralt could be wallowing in self-pity in peace.

"Hmmm." He waited for the pause to take another bite and quickly interjected, "When do we get to sit down?" It was taking all he had not to close his eyes as the room spun lazily; first one direction, then the other, accompanied by a soft chirping that seemed to ome from nowhere.

"Uh, after this initial meeting we have to go though there-" discreetly he pointed to another door, ornately decorated with gilded stars "-to mingle and eat the starters. That takes at least an hour." 

_An hour_? Geralt’s head swum at the thought and he ground his teeth as his body sung its betrayal. Jaskier leaned closer, on the pretence of handing him a goblet of honey wine. “Seriously, Geralt, _are_ you alright?”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you want to go?”

Jaskier snorted.

“Yes,” he conceded, speaking lowly in the hopes the nauseous feeling wouldn’t rise any higher. “But I won’t leave until you do. Which one of these lords wants to kill you, again?”

“Um- that one… and that one and those two- maybe him- Oh! And definitely him, there- see? With the gold brocade?”

***

By some miracle, he made it through the talking and then all the courses without embarrassing himself or letting any vengeful pillock get too close to Jaskier. Not easily, but he made it.

“Almost,” Jaskier promised the umpteenth time he asked if the whole ordeal was nearly over. “Try the pie- quite delectable!”

Geralt was sure it was, but not in his current state. Despite sticking to watered-down ale all night, his head was hot and heavy, the world spinning lazily on its side and his vision trying to catch up whenever he turned his head. Every limb ached enough that picking up his knife and fork physically hurt, not the mention the sickly disgust in the back of his throat whenever he so much as glanced down at his plate or made the mistake of inhaling through his nose. Tonight qualified as one of the worst nights of his life, and just when he was thinking perhaps he had managed it, the fucking Countess of… Somewhere herself had tapped her spoon against her glass, stood up and announced the evening’s entertainment for everyone was waiting in the courtyard. _Call it a night_ Geralt told himself as he stood up and his vision went black.

Still blinded momentarily, he followed Jaskier’s scent and lingered with him at the tail end of the guests filing out _another_ set of doors. Green lanterns had been strung up around the outskirts and Geralt looked away, biting down on the sick feeling that only rose higher as all the scents of the other guests mixed headily in the air. His legs were made of glass yet his feet were as heavy as boulders and if not for Jaskier’s presence at his side he would have teetered unsteadily. Fuck, he was going to throw up.

Lady Whoever stepped down from a podium, concluding a speech he hadn't realised was ongoing, presenting the night sky with a flourish of her long sleeves as if she owned it. And that’s when the explosions started. Geralt flinched at first, though his weakness went unnoticed just this once as many of the other guests startled too. He turned to Jaskier, eyes squinted half-shut in pain, watching the fireworks by the colours flowering across the bard’s face and his expressions of awe.

A bang bigger than the last sent nausea ricocheting round his head.

“’M going back to the inn,” he grunted, scarcely loud enough to be heard above the lightshow, taking the next explosion as his cue and opportunity to slip through an unwatched gate and start making his way round the huge mansion back to the road.

“Geralt!”

 _Fuck_.

“Geralt, get back here! You can’t just run off like that, there’s till the –ouch- oh, _Melitele’s tits_.”

Looking back, he saw he’d run into a rose bush without looking. “Go back to the feast, if it pleases you.”

“Well it doesn’t please me _now_ , you great oaf! I’ve ripped my favourite doublet chasing after you!” His list of complaints lasted them round to the front of the house, to the boundary of the estate and onto the track back to the village. Every step slocked and jostled his insides like churning butter and he didn’t even deign to reply with a noise, too focused on keeping his mouth shut.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Geralt bent over and vomited onto the grass.

Swearing and curses bounced round his head and then blessed silence, interrupted only by a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he looked up again, Jaskier had gotten a lot closer. “Are you alright?”

He retched again, hair falling in his eyes and legs trembling.

“Sorry. Stupid question, I suppose.”

Geralt tried to snap back a retort, yet to his utter humiliation the only sound to come out of his mouth was a pained groan. Immediately, Jaskier’s hands were on his shoulders again, a babble of soft words streaming from his mouth.

“Let’s get you back to the inn, hmm?” he asked sweetly, then waited for Geralt to stand upright before continuing down the path. Each step sent a knife through a new part of his body and he was aware of his loud, harried, shallow breaths as he struggled to keep up without toppling over; there was a new angry flame sparking to life in his ribcage though he couldn’t tell if that was the sickness or pure embarrassment for every time Jaskier would slow down and pretend he wasn’t doing it for his benefit.

He didn’t throw up again on the way back, but only barely. As soon as the door to their room was bolted, the winning streak evaporated and he fell on his knees beside the bed, long empty of purging anything except his dignity.

To his surprise, Jaskier didn’t leave, only hung his doublet on the back of a chair and proceeded to remove Geralt’s own clothes and help him into bed with a tenderness that burned his skin somehow worse than the sickness. “Piss off, bard,” he growled, knees pulled up to his chest and bedclothes pulled up to his chin and watching as Jaskier set a basin close and dragged the chair to sit next to the bed. “Why are you doing this?”

Jaskier frowned, confusion rolling off him in waves, “What, sitting here?”

“Yes.” An emotion stirred in his belly and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ride it out.

“Okay, seriously, do you not want a healer or-“

“No.” Speaking was a perilous idea and he clamped his mouth shut and ground his teeth, waiting for the feeling of being stared at to stop.

A sigh blew over his skin like a gust of wind. “Stubborn witcher. I’m here because I care about your health. What, d’you think I hadn't realised you’ve been unwell the whole day?”

Geralt would have sneered, had he the energy. He loathed charity.

“It’s _not_!” Jaskier exclaimed- muddled in his head, he hadn't said that last part outloud, had he? “If you’d have told me this morning you were unwell, I’d have looked after you then, too!”

This was all too much and his head was hurting as it was; huddling deeper in his blankets, he searched the darkened room for sleep. “Geralt…” he began, voice dangerously low. “Look at me.”

He groaned as the covers were pulled away and the candlelight hit his eyes and set his head on fire. “Let me sleep.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before we went there? I wouldn’t have made you go.”

“Sleep.”

“ _Geralt_.”

His sigh rumbled in his chest and he shifted onto his side, catching side of the basin Jaskier had placed in easy retching distance. “You asked me to go.”

“Yes, but I would never have-“

The look on Jaskier’s face made his stomach roil and hurt even more. “I promised to go with you. I-“he forced down the desire to retch again. He was a witcher; he had more self-control than this. “Never promised anything before, only to other witchers. Never to a- to a friend before.” That was it, that was all he could say, he couldn’t- to explain the truth in its entirety would take away every piece of control, dignity and armour he had in him and _he couldn’t._

Jaskier sat back, a smile on his face, “Okay. You want to try drinking something again?”

Geralt caught his wrist when he offered the mug, “You understand…?”

“I do,” he replied, bringing the mug to his lips because he as too shaky to do it himself. “Try drinking some more.”

He took one sip and then lay back down, back to the bard whose eyes were shining softly in the lamp glow. _I’ve never had a friend before, let alone a friend to make promises with, who invites me to royal events and knows me so well as you do. You are my first friend and I do not want any of this. I do not want to ruin any of this. I tried not to ruin tonight._ He didn’t need to say any of it: Jaskier knew.

A warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, “Go to sleep, Geralt.” He fell asleep between one heartbeat and the next.


	3. cry for help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's mental health is declining very fast, but he can't let himself talk about his feelings and wouldn't know how to anyway (maybe he doesn't fully process what's happening either). So he starts destroying himself, partially because he's falling apart and partially because he's (perhaps subconsciously) hoping someone will intervene. Not eating, not sleeping, not caring for his wounds, being careless in fights with monsters in ways that could get him killed, etc. Finally, Jaskier does in fact intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i probably did not do the prompt justice

** One **

Jaskier can’t see what the problem is, and says as much to the taciturn witcher at his elbow.

Geralt frowns, lifting his head from where his chin is merely hitting his collar, “There’s a problem?”

“It seems there must be, my dear, for there’s a steaming, full plate in front of you and you’re not eating it.”

“Hmmm.” He makes a token effort and picks up his spoon, pushing food around listless as if the cutlery is too heavy whilst Jaskier watches on, brow furrowed deep with the weight of his concern. His heart sinks when Geralt drops the spoon without taking a bite and goes back to staring into his untouched ale.

“Are you sick?” asks Jaskier, knowing better than to try and reach out and touch him in a room full of people.

“Not hungry.”

He’s flabbergasted, jaw dropping open, “You’ve just fought a drowner- for pittance, I might add. You’ve done everything to work up an appetite.” Roach, on their return, had dived nose-first into her feedbag and not resurfaced for almost half an hour. So surely he must be-

“I’m not hungry.” Geralt stands abruptly, shoving his chair backwards and his plate towards Jaskier. “Eat it yourself, if it bothers you.” And he’s stalking off before he can say another word, the crowd parting in distaste as he strides to the stairs and out of sight.

Jaskier pulls the plate towards him and eats alone.

***

****

** Two **

Everything is too loud in Geralt’s ears, a living waterfall streaming through his head even as everyone around him sleeps like the dead. There’s another bad fucking idea at play here- very bad, very stupid, very foolish, the sort that’ll blow up in their faces like the Dragon Hunt did. Hopefully Jaskier won’t leave like last time. He pauses, breath halting in his ribcage.

Where did that thought come from?

He and the bard have discussed this and it’s over.

Yet try as he might, his mind keeps returning to the devastation unfurling across the bard’s face, opening like a flower to sunlight and Geralt the axe. The world has quietened to his ears but the at the cost of everything else sounding as if he’s underwater. This has been happening too much lately, appetite fleeing at the sight of food, fear fleeing at the sight of a monster, just like now and he knows he will not want to sleep until sunbreak and the rest of the camp begins to stir to life. Then, he will want to sleep as means of escape.

He turns over onto his side and the world tilts with him. Doesn’t right itself. He focuses on Jaskier, sprawled over their bedrolls, the only part of him exposed a slither of skin at his ankle which Geralt grasps as tight as he dares in his fist. The world remains on its side. Long into the morning and he does not dare let go or close his eyes longer than it takes to blink.

There is a certainty in his guts: something terrible will happen if he closes his eyes. Terrible in the sense he will leave again. Maybe Yennefer will be behind it. Maybe he will leave because the dawn unveils the truth like pulling back a curtain. Maybe he’ll be stolen away in the night like a changeling. Maybe he’ll just vanish, there one moment and gone the next. Maybe he’s really just cursed and isn’t actually here at all.

The answer is no clearer when Jaskier wakes up, yawning and stretching and paying no mind to Geralt’s hold on his ankle. Then he opens his eyes. And then he immediately sits upright and leans over, face looming into his vision from above, care in every line of his face. Geralt feels the world tilt dizzyingly. “Holy shit, Geralt, your eyes.”

My eyes?

“They’re all red!” the bard exclaims, dabbing carefully at his monster eyes with the corner of a wet cloth he makes appear from nowhere. It’s a light-feather touch, hardly felt. “Oh, you look rather a mess and your eyes look all sore- how much sleep did you get?”

He shrugs, feeling the grit in his tear ducts and the soreness in his stiff muscles. “Didn’t.” Apparently he forgot how to blink, too, if it’s so noticeable. The hot flame in his sternum doesn’t dissipate when he explains he didn’t sleep, instead only burns hotter. Odd, Jaskier insists talking about things makes them better. Geralt should have known better. He does know better. So why…. Fuck if he knows. Fuck’s the best word for everything. Fuck.

***

** Three **

“Um, Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

“What are you doing?”

“Tending to Roach.”

“…All day?”

The glare he levels in the direction of the stable door makes him almost take a step back, “Are you saying Roach doesn’t deserve the best?”

“You know perfectly well I consider Roach a star of the finest magnitude, but I’ve never known you spend an entire down in the stables with her.”

“Hmmm.”

“You’ve not sharpened your swords either.”

“Hmmm.”

“Okay, then. I’ll… see you later?”

***

** Four **

“Five!” Jaskier’s voice cuts into his head and cleaves it in two. Geralt shuts his eyes and at once the bard is rousing him again by tapping his cheek without relenting. “Five!” he yells, bristling like a stray cat. “Five monsters, Geralt, with four potions and no White Honey. Just how stupid are you?”

He frowns. “Very?”

His mouth flattens into a hard line. Wrong answer. “You could have come back. You should have come back.” The bandage around his bicep is knotted tight enough to make him hiss, every inch if his skin tender with the effect of four combined potions. So it was a bad idea, after all. Better not tell Jaskier that. “You’re lucky Roach has all the common sense you’ve seemingly lost!”

Ah Roach, Geralt thinks gratefully, such a good horse. She’s saved his life so often he can’t count that high. Each curse Jaskier mutters not-quite-under-his-breath adds a stone to the weight on Geralt’s chest, until each exhale is a short, shallow whistle escaping past the hot coals in his chest. It’s been like this most of the time (every day) lately; he’s not sure what this different type of pain means, he’s just waiting for it to merge into all his other aches and stop catching his attention. The flame is doused by apparently nothing on the continent- not ale, sex, food, fighting- nothing. The closest thing he gets to relief is burying his face in Roach’s mane and letting her nibble on his hair a while.

More concerning is how little he desires to do anything else, how rising from his bedroll in the morning feels like an old man. And thinking about how he’ll never be an old man or even old enough to retire makes his chest throb and his ribs burn. That’s becoming part of this new normal too. He’s getting more and more reckless- this latest fight case in point. Every instinct can be screaming for him to do one thing and Geralt does… nothing. It’s the inaction which scares him more even than doing the polar opposite. Every contract, every fight, every meal, every sunrise, his mind tilts off-balance and tries to weigh him in place.

With a dramatic and vicious flourish, Jaskier ties off the last bandage and looks him hard in the face. Geralt feels his mind weigh an ounce heavier with each passing second, a tonne for every grey hair he’s caused his bard. “Are you alright?”

He swallows. “Yes.” (He’s afraid.)

***

** Five **

Few things does Jaskier like more in the world than the chance to help his witcher with his bath. Washing up post-monster fight when accommodation and circumstances allow is a ritual started from the very first days of their companionship and one he treasures. And not just for the way it lets him touch his lover’s naked body. He gets to choose nice-smelling oils, wash and brush his white hair, rinse away every piece of evidence of monsters and the outside world and make Geralt purr.

Naturally, then, is Jaskier rather put out and baffled at the current situation he finds himself in. Never in thirty three years, will he swear on his part-elvish blood, has Geralt refused a bath.

Jaskier tries a different tact and switches topic mid-sentence “-Is this because it wasn’t a difficult fight so a bath is too much reward? Because we’ve talked about this darling and-“

“No.” Geralt draws himself up to his full height and glares. Better men than Jaskier have fainted from that look alone.

“Pray tell, then, why you don’t want a bath!” He feels like he’s on a slippery surface, losing his footing and the subsequent bid to stay upright. “I mean, you always have a bath- always! Why don’t you- can’t you just have a bath tonight anyway- just for me? You _always_ have a bath!”

“No.” The tension in his shoulders could make flowers wilt- he hasn’t even taken his boots and armour off and Jaskier’s just- well, he’s just at a fucking loss here.

But he’s not in the business of forcing a man to partake in anything he doesn’t want to and he _especially_ cannot force the mountain that is Geralt of Rivia so he concedes, beginning to unbutton his doublet and breeches. _He’ll_ have a bath, then, another on top of the one he had earlier. Better than letting the water go to waste.

“Alright.” He slides in up to his neck. The water is lovely and if it feels this good to him, he can’t imagine the relief it’d give to a man on the tail-end of a monster fight and a four-mile trek. “Will you at least explain _why_ you’re not in the mood for a bath tonight?”

His only forthcoming answer is the soft clinking sounds almost lapped up by the water as Geralt turns his back and slowly starts to undress.

Whatever portion of sense and intuition he has left to him keeps him quiet as piece by piece drops away to show more and more livid purple bruises across that broad expanse of back he’s dug his fingernails into countless nights. “Was it really the hellhound that the village claimed?”

The question garners him a shrug- barely there, almost missed amongst his other movements.

The water is slowly cooling but Jaskier heats up with a flare of anger as the bruised and scratched flesh is hidden behind an (unwashed) black shirt, “Are you going to speak more than three words to me this evening?”

Whatever game Geralt is playing, it’s horrid and unfair and _really_ not satisfying to the worry that Jaskier carries around in his heart every time he’s left behind waiting to see if his lover actually makes it back alive.

“No. Good night,” says Geralt coolly, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to completely cover his head. The blankets are too short and his bare feet poke out the other end and it’s a testament to tonight’s ambience that he cannot spare a second even to find the sight endearing,

“Bastard,” he mutters. When he climbs into bed himself, hours later, he makes sure not to touch him at all.

***

** Plus One **

Geralt snarls and skitters out of his grasp like a wounded beast, “Don’t touch me!” Which for him is practically a dramatic scene.

a beacon ignites in Jaskier’s head. “Geralt,” he drops his voice into dulcet tones, a thing that is soft, as if the man before him really is a savage animal, a stray, and he the bard a good Samaritan tempting him from the side of the road. “You’re injured. Those wounds need cleaning.”

Rule two of witchers: do not let wounds fester. (Rule one: Don’t get killed.) He knows Geralt knows this. He doesn’t know what’s going on.

He steps closer and Geralt steps back- alright he’s not quite snapping and snarling, but it’s close enough. “Darling-“ he begins, cut off with a warning growl.

“Don’t call me that!”

Hurt and anger instantly begin to boil up in his gut and he takes a minute to clamp down on the urge to yell. It has not escaped his notice that something is wrong here. Very wrong. The beacon has grown into a bonfire, threatening to lose control. “Alright,” he resumes after a long pause. “But you still can’t leave those cuts untreated.” They’ve gone ignored long enough: Geralt returned to their camp two hours ago and the only reason Jaskier’s played along with his bad attitude so long is he provided the very plausible excuses of 1) not being dead and 2) tending to Roach. Yes, the edges are already starting to knit back together with his advanced healing powers, but that’s _not the point_.

Geralt remains stony-faced. “No.”

The beacon spills over and sets everything alight, “Geralt of Rivia, you sit your arse down here _right now_ and let me take care of you!”

Without hesitation, he sits down on his arse in the dirt where he stands, looks up at him like a soldier expecting his next order.

Jaskier will take what he can get.

No time is wasted and he makes short work of the shallow slashed and grazes littered over his witcher’s body. “Now then, we need to talk.”

The first crack appears in his armour, the briefest of emotions flickering across Geralt’s face. It’s gone as quickly as the trees above their heads wave their branches in the wind. “I don’t…”

When no more words are forthcoming he leans in closer, careful not to actually _touch_ until he’s given the go-ahead. “Would it be easier with Yes and No questions?”

He nods. Another crack, this time identifiable as relief. “Alright. Tilt your head if your answer is ‘don’t know’.”

A nod.

He starts with the obvious- there’s nothing wrong with asking the obvious. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

Headshake. No.

 _Are you sure?_ Instead he asks “Did you sleep at all last night?”

No.

“The night before?”

No.

“Do you know the last time you slept properly?”

No.

“Do you remember the last time you ate _properly_?”

No.

“Are you hungry now?”

No.

He draws in a deep breath and exhales through clenched teeth, “You’ve just fought a monster, how can you _not_ want to eat something?”

Head tilt. Don’t know.

As the wildfire in his head burns out, everything is slowly falling into place. Like tea leaves; only he reads the warning signs now the danger has already occurred.

“Do _you_ think there’s something the matter with you? Geralt?”

Jaskier crosses the invisible boundary and puts a hand on his knee, ducking his head until those golden eyes meet his own. Clouded over, not just with exhaustion but… confusion? Instead of pressing the lack of answer, Jaskier keeps his hands where they are and waits.

“It’s… tipping,” Geralt says haltingly without meeting his gaze. “Everything is tilting and- and- witchers don’t have feelings.”

“Right,” he answers, mostly just because Geralt needs him to respond in some way, even though he knows for certainty that what he just said isn’t true. Truth is dawning and it is all perfectly clear and horrible.

“But I haven’t felt _anything_.”

“What do you-“ he stops himself, doubtful there’s any way Geralt can explain what that means. “What do you do, then? When you realise you aren’t… feeling, I mean?”

He frowns and gnaws his lip and Jaskier feels all sorts of ways at such blatant emotionalism. It shouldn’t be like this- where is Geralt’s iron-clad control?

“I go- Roach is soft. I go to Roach.”

On cue, Roach whinnies softly, pausing in her delicate munches of grass to kick a hoof in her master’s direction. the tiny flicker of a smile it brings to his face gives Jaskier hope that all is not list.

“Is this why you’ve not been eating and sleeping?”

A nod. Yes.

Well that at least answers all his questions, Jaskier supposes. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

A blank stare, “Witchers don’t have feelings.”

The problem is probably less that and more that they haven’t a clue how to talk about their feelings in the tough, unyielding atmosphere that was Kaer Morhen, though he doesn’t push the issue.

Geralt’s eyes lower and he mumbles so quietly the words are nearly inaudible, “Thought you’d notice, if I didn’t… But then I couldn’t explain it all in my head straight so what if I told you and…”

“I’m not a mind-reader, Geralt,” only he speaks very, very softly as an apology for saying _that_ when what he means is: _I did notice something was wrong. Noticing wasn’t enough_.

It will make this easier for next time, at least.

Jaskier pauses. There isn’t going to be a next time, is there?

Possibly not. Possibly because a man can’t lose his mind twice. A broken thing cannot shatter again. Although if anyone was going to find a way, it of course isn’t going to be Geralt. Oh fuck.

“This isn’t happening again.” They both flinch at the harshness in his voice and Jaskier grasps hold of his hand until he feels bones creak. “Tell me how to help you.”

“I don’t…” After several minutes of floundering, he simply shrugs.

The barefaced helplessness on his face does it. “Alright, then, I’ll decide and if there’s anything you _don’t_ want to do, you tell me when it comes up. We’re going to sleep in as long as we like in the morning, then we’re collecting your coin from the alderman and we’ll ask him at the same time the best way to the coast. You aren’t going to take _any_ contracts, I’m going to perform and earn us more than enough coin. We’ll stop at the coast for as long as we want and do anything we want. How does that sound?”

“Can Roach go in the sea?”

Jaskier laughs. Even Geralt cracks a smile. This might not get any better but Jaskier’s now determined things aren’t going to get any worse. “Roach is an absolute madam, of course she can do what she likes too.”

Roach interjects with a snort that almost sounds happy and it makes Geralt’s smile widen just slightly. Jaskier lets himself breathe out in relief. Far be it from him to tempt fate, but he thinks perhaps everything is going to be alright.


End file.
